


Everybody Wants to Rule the World

by starbursts_and_kisses



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drama, F/M, Implied Incest, More angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 07:17:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1257664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starbursts_and_kisses/pseuds/starbursts_and_kisses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>“Would you kill a woman for me if I asked you to?”</em> </p><p>Jaime Lannister is not an honorable man, but at the end of the day, he would do anything for love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everybody Wants to Rule the World

  

“Would you kill a woman for me if I asked you to?” 

He stops in the middle of the act of tracing idle patterns on Cersei’s shoulder and stares at her. She looks gorgeous as always – all golden curls and flushed cheeks and soft curves – and for a moment, he feels a momentary pang of regret that come tomorrow, he would have to leave her again and journey back to King’s Landing to serve a boisterous fool in a court populated by idiots and false lords. 

He cups her cheek with one hand, and though her eyelids flutter close and she lets out a soft sigh, when she opens her eyes again, the same look he saw a moment ago is still there. It is a determined look - one borne out of lust, but not the kind of lust Jaime is accustomed to seeing. No, this time, what he sees is the reflection of Tywin Lannister staring back at him.

Jaime lets out a sigh he doesn’t realize he has been holding. “A woman?” he repeats slowly, propping his chin on one hand and surveying his twin through half-lidded eyes. 

Cersei nods. “Just one,” she says, mirroring his position so that they are perfectly aligned - shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, just the way they should be. 

“Who?” 

“Lyanna Stark.” 

Jaime’s eyebrows shoot up, and despite the disapproving look Cersei sends him, he laughs. “You mean _Queen_ Lyanna?” 

His twin’s eyes narrow at the mention of the Northern girl’s new honorific title, and there is such blatant contempt in her gaze that, were he any other man, he would have immediately taken it as his cue to change the subject. But Jaime Lannister is not like most men, and instead of feeling repelled, he finds himself oddly aroused.

He makes a move toward her, but Cersei violently shies away from his touch. “It should have been me,” she says bitterly. “I was the one who was supposed to wed Rhaegar, but Elia Martell stole him from me. And then the war happened, and Rhaegar died, and Father said I was to marry Robert Baratheon instead. But then that Stark bitch showed up and ruined everything. It should have been me, Jaime. It should have been _me.”_

“And would you have been happy being Robert Baratheon’s wife, sister?” Jaime asks her. “He is a swine and a drunkard and an awful man besides, and he does not deserve you.” 

“Perhaps not,” Cersei replies. “But I would have been Queen.” 

A resentful laugh escapes Jaime’s throat. Truth be told, he would never understand why Cersei longs for such a thing. He has seen what title and power could do to a man – he has enough nightmares about the Mad King and a city ravaged by wildfire to last him a lifetime – and he does not care to see his sister corrupted in such a way. But Cersei is Tywin Lannister’s child through and through, and if there’s one thing she inherited from their father, it is ambition. 

“I want that crown, Jaime,” Cersei whispers into her brother’s ear, her eyes flashing dangerously and her nails digging painfully into her palms. 

Jaime leans forward, brushing his forehead against hers, and plants a soft kiss on her brow. “I would do anything for you, sister,” he vows. “Anything.”

Cersei knows it. But she likes to hear him say it all the same.

 

* * *

 

The moment Jaime arrives at King’s Landing, the game begins. He watches and waits, and takes note of everything there is to know about the enigma that is Lyanna Stark. 

She is beautiful, Jaime grudgingly has to admit, with those dark Northern brows and haunting grey eyes, and he could scarcely blame Robert Baratheon and Rhaegar Targeryen for starting a war over her. But she is not Cersei. And any woman who isn’t Cersei is not someone Jaime would like to know on a daily basis. But still, if he is to perform the very task his sister has entrusted him to do, then he must find a way to get closer to the queen. 

By all rights, it should have been easy. Jaime is a member of the Kingsguard, tasked to defend the king and his royal bride, but though he is a constant presence in the castle, shadowing them and protecting them from threats both real and imaginary, he could not find a moment alone with the queen. She does not trust him, he thinks at first. But then he realizes, _No, that’s not it. She does not trust anyone at all._  

He has heard tales of Lyanna Stark – the realm is always full of tales about Lyanna Stark and the tourney at Harrenhall – but despite which version you believe, the stories all agree on one thing – she is a lovely young maiden, sprightly one moment and mysterious the next, just the sort of person one might expect to be crowned Queen of Love and Beauty, had anyone other than Rhaegar Targaryen won the joust that day. 

But the woman he meets at Robert Baratheon’s court that day is not that same woman he has heard so much about. She looks serious and impassive, like a true ice maiden from the North, and even when she speaks to King Robert, who looks at her as though the sun shines on her arse, there is no warmth in it. Whatever it was that Lyanna Stark experienced during the days that followed Robert’s Rebellion, whatever horrors she had seen and endured behind the walls of the Tower of Joy, it had changed her. 

 _This complicates things,_ Jaime thinks sourly to himself. He is by no means a patient man, but for the sake of his sister, he must endure. So he waits. He waits and learns, and consoles himself by thinking that one day soon he would have his chance. 

But that chance never comes, and were it any other woman whose throat he has to slit, the waiting would have killed him. Luckily for Jaime Lannister, Queen Lyanna is an interesting woman. 

He learns that she likes to go riding in the mornings, her hair loose and unbound in a way that makes all the Southron women stare at her with barely concealed expressions of revulsion and indignation, and when the mood strikes her, she would outrun every knight and rider her husband sends out to escort her, her horse shooting through the air like a comet. 

In the afternoons, she would tend to her roses in the palace gardens – blue winter roses the likes of which the South has never seen before – and in the evenings, she would feast with the king and the entire court with dirt stains on her dress and flowers in her hair, her chin held high. 

And though her eyes are stony and she treats everyone save Jon Arryn with a polite indifference that would have made even Jaime’s father proud, Jaime is not fooled. She is still wild, this queen of theirs. And wild things are difficult to kill.

 

* * *

 

One day, Jaime learns another odd thing about Lyanna Stark. 

By this time, he has long since given up the hopes that he might be able to charm his way into her good graces. He’d tried it once, charming her the way a knight would charm a lady right before he asks for her favor in an upcoming battle, but Queen Lyanna would have none of it. No doubt her brother Eddard, who now rules the North as Lord of Winterfell, has warned her against him. Or perhaps the lady is smarter than he thinks. 

So instead, Jaime has taken to following her under the pretense of duty. During one of these ridiculous mummer’s farces, wherein Jaime is still feeling sore that he’d been interrupted once again from sabotaging Her Grace’s saddle, he overhears a conversation between Lyanna and one of her Northern ladies. 

“But Your Grace!” her Northern companion protests. “The king is –” 

“Yes, I know precisely where the king is,” Lyanna Stark calmly says. 

“Then something must be done, Your Grace. He cannot do this to you –” 

“He can and he will. And I will neither stop him nor speak to him about this matter,” Lyanna continues, her voice unwavering. “But do see to it that the serving girl drinks her moon tea. If she refuses, bring one of the guards to hold her down while you pour the liquid down her throat. I will tolerate Robert’s whoring, but I will _not_ have a bastard in my household.” 

And that’s the moment when Jaime realizes that Lyanna Stark, lovely Lyanna whose name King Robert says with god-like reverence, is not happy with her choice of husband. Jaime had assumed that her indifference towards everyone, her husband in particular, was nothing but a result of the war, but now he finds himself thinking otherwise. Perhaps even before her betrothal, when things were less bleak and kings and princes did not drop dead like flies, she had already hated the previous Lord of Storm’s End. 

 _And who can blame her? Robert is no fit husband for anyone._

But it is the thought of Robert being oblivious to his wife’s coldness that truly amuses Jaime. “She’s just shy,” he’d once overheard the king say when Renly Baratheon dared to tease him, as only a brother could, about the queen’s glaring immunity to the king’s good looks. 

 _Shy my arse,_ Jaime thinks as he tries his best to suppress a laugh. Lyanna Stark hates the king, and now all he has to do is to find a way to turn that to his advantage.

 

* * *

  

When the queen announces that she is with child, the entire court rejoices. Robert roars his approval and kisses her long and hard in front of everyone, and declares that if it is a boy, he would name him Jon, in honor of his dear friend and mentor Jon Arryn. 

During the days that follow, Robert dotes on his queen more than usual, and it takes everything in Jaime not to retch. Three moons later though, when Lyanna’s stomach is beginning to show, Robert, although still sickeningly affectionate towards his wife, reverts back to his philandering ways. When Jaime learns the news, he is not surprised. 

 _And this is the man my sister wants to marry? This idea of hers is sounding more and more terrible by the hour._

Without meaning to, he wonders how Queen Lyanna would take the news. He’d heard pregnancy could change a woman’s temperament faster than a Frey could say “yield”. Perhaps this time she would react differently. If Cersei were in her place, no doubt, she’d throw a fit by now. 

The question must have shown on his face, for the next time Jaime finds himself on guard duty with the queen, her lady companions only a short distance behind them, she raises an eyebrow at him and inquires, “Pray tell me, Ser. What troubles you? You have the most peculiar expression on your face.” 

Jaime blinks, taken completely by surprise, for he can count on one hand the number of times Lyanna Stark has voluntarily tried to initiate a conversation with him. After a moment though, he recovers and looks at her, trying to gauge how much he can say without risking her wrath. “Does it truly not bother you?” he finds himself asking. 

“What should?” 

“The king’s infidelity. He is dishonoring you, Your Grace. I presume you are aware of it?” 

For the first time in Jaime’s life, he hears Lyanna laugh. It is a nice laugh. “My dear Ser Jaime,” she says, one corner of her mouth quirking upwards into a smile. “Have you not heard? I am a woman entirely without honor. I am a whore, a harlot who seduced one prince while I promised myself to another. So all this talk about dishonor … how can that be true when there’s nothing left of my honor for my husband to ruin?”

 

* * *

 

After that, things between him and Lyanna Stark gradually begin to improve. It also helps that the queen is now too pregnant to go riding or exploring, so she is forced to remain in her chambers for most of her days. This only makes her more sullen and insufferable, and often she would pace in front of her bedroom window like a caged animal, driving nearly everyone in the castle mad, save for Jaime, who is no stranger to women’s bizarre temperaments after having spent nearly all his life dealing with Cersei when she is in one of her black moods. 

“When you find yourself a wife, Ser Jaime,” Lyanna says through gritted teeth as she walks around the room with one hand resting on her belly, her face twisted in pain, “make sure to treat her with the utmost care, for it is no easy task to carry a child.” 

Jaime smirks at her in a way Ser Barristan would have found highly improper had he been there to witness it. “I am of the Kingsguard, Your Grace. We can have no wives,” he reminds her. 

“Well then, someone should have told Robert long ago to join your cause and be your Sworn Brother,” Lyanna churlishly snaps back. 

Jaime laughs. “If that had happened, then you would not have been queen,” he points out. 

“Yes. And I would be all the better for it,” she mutters under her breath. 

Jaime looks away and pretends he did not hear her say that.

 

* * *

 

He watches the letter catch fire before throwing it into the fireplace, just like he had done to all the previous letters his sister had sent him from Casterly Rock. Cersei is taking an extraordinarily huge risk by sending ravens to King’s Landing, but then again, from what he has gathered from her, things have gotten desperate enough indeed. 

 _Father wants me to marry Stannis Baratheon,_ she writes him, and just thinking about his sister being tied down in holy matrimony to such a man makes Jaime’s blood boil. He grips the pommel of his sword so hard he half-expects it to break, and he doesn’t know whether he should be mad at his father, at Stannis, or at both. 

Marriage to Stannis Baratheon is like marriage to a rock, that much he knows. And to make matters worse, Stannis is now the Lord of Dragonstone, and Dragonstone is a cold, hard place. Cersei would die within a week of living there. Which is why he has to stop the marriage and do his part, as Cersei so helpfully pointed out in her letter. She had managed to delay the marriage by another few months, although how she successfully achieved such a thing against their father, Jaime is most curious to know – perhaps she had blackmailed Tyrion into helping her – but hopefully if things go according to plan, she’d be married to a different man by then, and she and Jaime could be together again. 

But then there is the matter of Lyanna… 

 _Fuck Lyanna. Who cares about her?_ Jaime thinks viciously to himself. _Now is an awfully inconvenient time to grow a conscience. No matter what happens,_ _I must get rid of her._

But oddly enough, the thought of slitting pregnant Lyanna Stark on the throat the way he’d slit the Mad King on his throne makes Jaime’s stomach turn, and he finds himself thinking of other things to say, excuses he must tell himself in order to spare her life just a little bit longer. 

 _She could die at childbirth,_ Jaime decides. He knows for a fact that the late Lady Stark, Lyanna’s mother, had died upon giving birth to her third son. Perhaps the same fate would befall her daughter. If that happens, then Jaime would not need to kill the queen and risk being discovered as a traitor, and he could secure his sister’s future without lifting a single finger. 

Jaime nods to himself. Yes, that could work.

 

* * *

 

When Jon Baratheon comes into the world kicking and screaming, his mother is there to hold him in her arms. That night, Jaime feels a strange sensation at the bottom of his stomach when he hears King Robert toast to the health of his newborn son and his wife. He tells himself it is disappointment, and though part of it is true, there is something else there, something foreign that he refuses to name or say out loud.

He does not see Lyanna for a long time after that. She stays in bed, nursing her son and slowly regaining back her strength, and Jaime manages to convince himself that it’s only for the best. Perhaps a week or so without her presence would clear his head and do him good. 

But one day, she finally graces the court with her presence, and to everyone’s astonishment, they notice that something about her has changed. She no longer looks somber and withdrawn. There is something about motherhood that makes her cheeks glow with unconcealed happiness, and when she finds a moment alone from the crowd of well-wishers and suck-up lords and ladies that flocked to her the moment her arrival was announced, she sees Jaime, and the smile she shoots him is so radiant it nearly takes him by surprise.

“Ser Jaime,” she greets him warmly. “How have you been? I see you look healthier now. No doubt you’ve been sleeping well these past few weeks, without me to guard and torment you.” 

Jaime favors her with an arrogant smirk. “On the contrary, Your Grace, life at court is rather dull without you,” he remarks smoothly. “Without you to keep a stern eye on her, I fear that Lady Tanda has once again taken to badgering me to abandon my Kingsguard vows so I could marry her daughter Lollys.” 

Lyanna arches one eyebrow. “Oh? That is troubling news indeed,” she manages to say with a straight face. 

“But the idea is tempting, I must say. Just imagine the look on my father’s face when he hears of this.” 

Lyanna smiles impishly at him. “Did you hear that, Jon?” she coos to her newborn son, who looks every bit a Stark, with not a trace of Baratheon blood in his features. “Ser Jaime is getting married to Lollys Stokesworth. What say you, my son? Shall I send Lord Tywin the wedding invitations myself?” 

The babe quietly stares back at her with large, unblinking eyes, and Jaime finds himself laughing. “Ah, I hate to disappoint you, Your Grace, but to tell you the truth, I think my father would not oppose the match, should I be fool enough to suggest it. He would rather have Lollys Stokesworth as his good daughter than hand over Casterly Rock to my brother.” 

A frown makes its way to Lyanna’s face. “But that’s absurd!” she exclaims. “Is your brother not competent enough to rule the West in your father’s stead?” 

“Competent? My brother Tyrion is smarter than all of the scholars and councilors in King’s Landing put together,” Jaime tells her, not bothering to hide the pride in his voice. 

“So he is nothing like you, then?” 

Jaime smirks. What a wicked tongue this queen has, he inwardly says, his eyes dancing with amusement. “No,” he corrects her. “Tyrion is nothing at all like me _or_ my sister Cersei.” 

“Then I like him already,” Lyanna declares. 

Jaime watches the smile on her face bloom; the sight of her looking so unguarded brings that ugly feeling back to his chest, and he has to remind himself again not to get too caught up in the act. This whole sudden camaraderie with the queen is just another farce, he tells himself, and sooner or later, poor Jon Baratheon would have to find himself without a mother. 

But then he sees something in Lyanna shift, and in that split-second before she turns her back from him and peers down at her son, Jaime sees the unmistakable flash of sadness in her eyes. “I used to have three brothers once. Did you know that, Jon?” she murmurs in a voice so soft and clearly intended only for young Jon’s ears. 

But Jaime hears her well enough, and for a moment, the spell is broken. And then he hears it – the faint echo of a man’s tortured screams, a king’s evil laugh, the sound of flames licking across the ground. 

A sudden terror grips him, but when he blinks again, the memory is gone.

 

* * *

 

For a short while, life at King’s Landing is peaceful. Lyanna occupies her days with her son, and when she is not with him, she is with Jaime, riding with him almost every morning, rescuing him from the clutches of Lady Tanda, and ordering him to help her in the palace gardens. Jaime, in true Lannister fashion, looks particularly horrified at the suggestion of taking part in such an unmanly and undignified activity, but that, in turn, only makes Lyanna even more determined to have him help her. The disgruntled look he shoots her whenever Lyanna commands him to help her dig the soil and water the roses is always worth it, she decides. 

For his part, Jaime tells himself that he is only enduring Her Grace’s company because he needs to find the perfect opportunity to kill her. But as the moon wanes and turns, without him knowing it, his resolve begins to weaken. By the end of the new moon, he has found more than a dozen opportunities to kill her, but each time he stops himself in time and tells himself that he must wait a little longer. 

Meanwhile, Cersei’s letters rapidly increase, the tone of its contents growing more and more desperate by the minute. 

 _Is it done, Jaime? Have you done it? I am running out of time. I don’t want to marry Stannis. Save me, Jaime. Save me. I love you, I love you, I love you. What are you doing? Why are you taking so long to reply? Jaime, where are you? Have you abandoned me? Jaime, why is she still alive? Jaime… don’t you love me?_

With a heavy heart, Jaime carefully feeds each letter to the flames, making sure that no evidence of treachery could be traced back to his twin, and against his will, he finds himself growing weary of writing back the same excuses. So slowly but surely, his replies to her dwindle, until finally, one day, he is faced with the dilemma of not knowing what else to say, so he choose not to reply instead. 

Jaime does not want to abandon Cersei – really, he has no plans to abandon her – but he must wait. Just a little while longer, he promises himself.

 

* * *

 

One day, the perfect opportunity comes to him. King Robert has gone hunting on a whim, taking half of the court with him, but this time Lyanna has chosen not to go with them. She says she could not leave Jon, but Jaime knows there is more to it than that. There is a sadness in her today, something he has not seen in her before, and so Jaime asks Ser Barristan if he might stay and guard the queen in Ser Arys’ stead. His Lord Commander easily agrees, but not before shooting Jaime a puzzled look. 

But Jaime does not care. He walks briskly toward the queen’s apartments, but to his surprise, she is not there. He searches everywhere for her – in the stables, in the gardens, even in King Robert’s own private chambers – but finally, just when he is about to give up, he sees a flash of dark brown, and when he turns the corner, he finds her precariously seated on one of the tower windowsills, a half-empty bottle of Dornish wine clutched in one hand. 

“Your Grace?” 

There is no answer. 

“Lyanna?” Jaime tries again.

Lyanna turns at the sound of her name, and when he sees her, it barely takes a moment for him to realize that she is drunk. She stares at Jaime with glassy eyes, her lips slightly parted, her cheeks tinged red, and instantly Jaime realizes that this is the moment he has been waiting for. 

He could push her off the tower window right this instant and no one would be the wiser. He could say that she fell, that she was drunk, that when he tried to stop her, she did not listen, and that by the time he reached her, it was too late. Robert would grieve for her, he knows. He would be inconsolable for weeks, months even. But Cersei would make a beautiful bride, and in time, Robert would learn to appreciate that. 

Jaime closes his eyes and thinks of Cersei. He thinks of his twin lying naked in his arms with that passionate, determined look in her face; he pictures a future where Cersei is queen and married to Robert; he sees them together, forever at last; and for a moment, his resolve strengthens. 

With one final intake of breath, Jaime clenches his jaw and marches towards Lyanna. _Just one push,_ he thinks. _One push is all it would take._

He carefully approaches her, the way one might approach a wild beast, but when Jaime manages to close the distance between them, Lyanna reaches out a hand and cups his cheek with her palm. 

“Brandon, is that you?” she calls out in a broken voice. 

“No. It’s me, Jaime,” he replies, feeling as though he owes her this one last courtesy before she plunges to her death. 

Lyanna lets out a soft sigh, her eyelashes fluttering. “Jaime,” she repeats, saying his name with a childlike hope that Jaime honestly feels he does not deserve. “Jaime, my brave knight.” 

She tilts her head to one side and looks at him, really looks at him, and he feels something inside him crack. “Tell me, Jaime. Are all men such evil beings?” she whispers plaintively. 

 _Don’t listen to her. Push her now,_ Jaime chides himself. _What are you doing, you fool? Push her!_  

But Jaime is frozen under her touch, and for the first time in his life, he feels powerless. 

“My poor Brandon. My dear brother. Did you know him, Jaime? He died because of me, because he _loved_ me, and if I could take it all back, I would. But it wasn’t just my fault, was it? Aerys Targaryen is to blame as well. He killed him just as much as I did. So why do I get all the blame? Why can’t Ned look me in the eye anymore? Why is my family dead? My brother, my father… My honorable father, who only wanted what was best for me… Aerys killed him too. How could anyone do such an evil thing? How?” 

And that’s when it hits him. Today marks another year of her father and her brother’s death. This is why Lyanna is acting so strange. This is why Lyanna looks so… haunted. 

He ignores her drunken ramblings, drives all thoughts of mad kings and burning men from his head, and takes another step forward, forcing Lyanna to edge closer to the window. All it would take is just one more misstep and she would fall. And then it would finally be over. 

“I never did thank you, did I?” Lyanna murmurs, her palm still gloriously hot against his cheek. She is so close to him now that he could smell the wine on her breath and the hint of winter roses on her skin, and had this happened several moons ago, Jaime would have felt repulsed, but that was before. Before Lyanna Stark barged into his life and bewitched him with her smile. Now, though… Jaime is about to push her off a tower window and he has never felt more wretched in his life. 

“Thank me for what?” Jaime asks, curious despite himself. 

“For killing the Mad King,” Lyanna says in a whisper. “He was evil and mad and he deserved to die for what he did to my family. Ned says what you did was wrong, that you should have been punished for it, but I don’t agree with him. I’m _glad_ that you killed him. You are not an honorable man, Jaime Lannister – the gods know you’re not – but what you did that day… it was the right thing to do. And I am grateful for it.” 

 _I don’t want your thanks,_ Jaime wants to yell at her. _I am about to kill you and make your husband a widow. You stupid girl. Can you not see? I’ve been plotting to kill you ever since I got here, so I can make my sister queen, so I can fuck her every day and spend the rest of our lives together… and yet you want to_ thank _me?_

Jaime wants to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it, but Lyanna’s words are stuck in his head, and she is still staring at him with those sad, grey eyes, and oh gods, he could never do it, could he? He will never be able to kill her. He has survived this long by deluding himself into thinking that when the time comes, he would be able to do right by Cersei, but who is he fooling? He can’t do it. How can he, when she is the only person in the entire realm who has ever thanked him for the crime that earned him his namesake? 

He takes a deep breath, exhales, and turns away so that Lyanna’s palm touches nothing but thin air. 

Cersei would never forgive him for this, he immediately realizes. She would take this as the ultimate form of betrayal, and though his sister is many things, forgiving is not one of them. Jaime swore to her that he would give her a crown, but instead, he’d gone and given his loyalty to her rival instead. 

 _How did things get so messed up?_ he wonders. 

But then again, Jaime Lannister is no stranger to breaking promises. In the eyes of gods and men, he’d already betrayed one king and put an end to his reign with not a single thought for his conscience. So what’s one more broken vow to him?

 

* * *

 

The day Tywin’s only daughter marries Stannis Baratheon, Lyanna finds Jaime alone in the training yard, uselessly hacking at one of the straw dummies in frustration. His shoulders are shaking from exertion, his glorious mane of golden hair is slick with sweat, and he looks as though he has been at it since dawn. 

“I’m sorry, Jaime,” Lyanna says softly as she lays one hand on his shoulder.

“Sorry for what?” Jaime snaps, brusquely shaking her hand off without any regard for propriety. 

“I’m sorry you could not attend your sister’s wedding,” she tells him. “I know you two were close.” 

Jaime tosses his sword to the side, where it hits the ground with a loud clang, and the mocking smile he gives Lyanna is so terrible, so unlike the Jaime that she had come to know over the past few months, that she almost cringes. “How can I be at her fucking wedding when she specifically told my father that the only way she would marry Stannis is if I was not fucking there?” he all but shouts at her. 

“Why did she do that? Did you quarrel with Lady Cersei?” Lyanna asks him, and though Jaime tries his best to drive her away with his glare, Lyanna would not be cowed. She had faced far worse things than Jaime Lannister on a bad mood, so there are few things left in this world that would scare her now. 

When it becomes clear that Lyanna would not leave until she gets her answers, Jaime sighs. “We did. We fought badly,” he finally admits. “You’d think she was an only child, the way my sister tells it.” 

Lyanna blinks at him. “Why is she mad at you?” 

Jaime looks at her, his mouth uncharacteristically drawn into a straight line. “Because,” he says with another sigh, “For the first time in my life, I went against my sister’s wishes. Naturally, she did not like that.”

 

* * *

 

The closer Jaime gets to Lyanna, the more strained her relationship with Robert becomes. Jaime could not pinpoint the moment when it first began; all he knows is that their arguments start to increase, Lyanna becomes more and more willful by the day, and Robert keeps looking at Jaime as though he wants nothing more than to drive a stake through his heart. 

One time he is standing guard outside the king’s chambers, bored out of his fucking mind, when he hears the unmistakable sound of Lyanna’s voice rising in anger. 

“He is my son, Robert! I get to decide what happens to him!” 

“But Lya, you’re being unreasonable!” He hears Robert exclaim childishly. “You want to send our only son thousands of miles away, to a frozen wasteland where he would grow up without our guidance? He is the heir to the Iron Throne! What in gods’ name makes you think I would consent to sending him away like that?” 

“That frozen wasteland,” Lyanna shouts back at him, “is my home. Or have you forgotten that?” 

“Of course I haven’t, but –” 

“I want him fostered at Winterfell when he is old enough, Robert,” Lyanna interrupts him. “Not forever, but just for a few years. We will visit him from time to time, of course. And Ned would take good care of him. I know he will. You do trust Ned, don’t you?” 

King Robert groans, and just like that, Lyanna knows she has won. There is no way Robert would deny her this, not when she so cleverly used a man who Robert considers as his own brother to make her point. “Then we are agreed then,” she says, masking the triumph in her voice into something that more closely resembles queenly grace. 

Robert storms out of the room in a huff, barely sparing Jaime a glance, and a moment later, Queen Lyanna follows suit. She meets Jaime’s raised eyebrow with a tired smile of her own before saying, “Don't worry. The king can’t stay mad at me for long.” 

“No one can stay mad at you for long, Lyanna,” Jaime tells her with an amused shake of his head. “But I don’t understand. You love Jon more than life itself. Why would you want to send him away?” 

“Because I don’t want him near his father,” Lyanna states bluntly. “I don’t want Jon to end up like him. I want him to grow up an honorable man, and who better to teach him about honor and duty that my brother Ned?” 

And because Jaime knows her so well by now, he tells her, “It will hurt, being away from your son. You’ll miss him so much you won’t know what to do with yourself.”

Lyanna grabs his hand and squeezes it. “I know,” she whispers sadly. “Good thing I still have you.”

 

* * *

 

Lyanna is laughing and holding onto his arm with glee (for Jaime is in the middle of telling her about the time his brother dressed himself in motley and did a cartwheel in front of their lord father) when Robert finds them like that. 

The king narrows his eyes and stumbles toward them, his heavy frame threatening to tumble to the floor at any moment. _By the gods,_ Jaime thinks as he curls his lip in disgust. _He looks drunker than a Lyseni sailor._

“You!” Robert bellows in a voice loud enough to wake up the entire city. “How dare you lay your hands on my Lyanna? Let go of her this instant!” 

When he gets near enough to see Jaime’s face, however, he recoils, and something akin to horror graces his face. “No…” he exclaims in disbelief. “Why are you… why are you here? I killed you! I killed you and your children and all the rest of your godforsaken family! No, this cannot be possible! You can’t be here!” 

A look of understanding crosses Lyanna’s face. “Robert,” she says in a placating voice as she grabs him gently by the shoulder and slowly steers him away from Jaime. “You’re drunk, dear husband. You’re not thinking straight. This is Ser Jaime, your own sworn knight. He is no dragon.” 

Robert blinks several times, as though to clear his mind from the haze of alcohol, and stares stupidly at Jaime. “Jaime… Jaime Lannister?” he mutters hesitantly, and for a moment, Lyanna thinks this will work. But then Robert snarls and lunges for Jaime, all the while shouting, “No, this is a trick! It’s him again, come to torment me and take you away from me! Well, I won’t have it! I’ll kill him! I’ll kill him over and over again if I have to!” 

“Robert, stop it!” Lyanna yells, throwing herself in his path and bracing her hands against her husband’s form in an attempt to get him to stop. “Rhaegar is dead! You’re imagining things. Now stop it at once before you make a complete fool of yourself!” 

Irked at the thought of being interrupted, Robert whirls on his queen, his face contorted into an ugly mask of anger. “You would dare side with him?” he roars. “You would betray me, your own husband and king? I fought a war for you, Lyanna! I gave you a crown! I defended you from everyone who ever said you were not worthy to be my wife. I gave you everything your heart could ever desire… and this is how you repay me? No, I will show you… I will show you what it means to be married to a king. I will make you see. I will make you love me.” 

Robert reaches for her and half-drags, half-carries her away, prompting Lyanna to cry out in pain. In a heartbeat, Jaime is by her side, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword, but Lyanna shoots him a look. Just one look, but Jaime understands. 

So despite every instinct in his body telling him to fight, he stops in his tracks and watches them disappear inside the king’s chambers. Jaime follows them, stopping just short of flinging the doors open, and with a frustrated growl, rests his forehead against the wooden doors, wishing with all his might that he could strike Robert Baratheon on the chest using the very war hammer he used to kill Rhaegar. 

“I am your husband, Lya! You belong to me!” he could hear Robert yelling inside the room. 

“I belong to no one!” Lyanna shouts back. “And maybe if you weren’t so busy cavorting around and sticking your head between some other woman’s thighs, you would realize that!” 

“Is this what this is about? Oh, Lya, can’t you see? I love you. Only you.” 

“Well, that’s too bad, because you will never have my love,” Lyanna proclaims, her voice shaking with so much anger. “I hate you, Robert Baratheon! I wish you had died, that day at the Trident. It should have been you.” 

There is a forbidding silence that follows her declaration. Then Jaime hears Lyanna’s scream, the sound of glass shattering, and what sounds like something – or someone – hitting the floor. 

Vows or no vows, Jaime pushes both doors open, the blood rushing through his veins like liquid fire, and stumbles across an astounding sight. Lyanna has her back turned to him, the shattered remains of a glass bottle held tightly in her hand, and below her, sprawled out on the floor like a giant slumbering beast, lies His Grace. 

“Is he…?” Jaime begins to ask. 

“No. He’s still alive. I only knocked him unconscious,” Lyanna whispers hoarsely. “Soon enough he’ll wake up, with no memory of what he did or how he got here.”

 Jaime steps forward, his hands trembling. “Did he hurt you? Gods, did he –” 

“I’m alright, Jaime,” the queen interrupts him, and Jaime is surprised to hear the steel in her voice. “Please leave.” 

“Are you fucking kidding me? That bastard just tried to –” 

“Ser Jaime, need I remind you that I am your queen?” Lyanna states imperiously, drawing herself to her full height without so much as a glance at him. 

Jaime hesitates, and then, as if sensing it, Lyanna sighs and says, her voice softer this time, “Please, Jaime. I just… I need to be alone for a moment.” 

“As you wish.”

 

* * *

 

But for three days and three nights, Lyanna Stark does not leave her chambers. Her husband, who, true to Lyanna’s word, wakes up with a huge bruise on his forehead and with no recollection of what happened that day beyond his lovely stint at Chataya’s, knows not what to do. His wife’s glaring absence from court has not been missed, to be sure, but Robert is weak when it comes to Lyanna, so when he learns that his wife wants to stay away and brood in her room for god knows how long, Robert does nothing. 

Jaime, rash being that he is, has no problem doing the complete opposite. He tries to sneak his way past Lyanna’s rooms, but there are guards posted outside her door – men loyal to the queen, men who would sooner die than disobey her orders – and though Jaime could have beaten them all without breaking a sweat, he doubts Lyanna would appreciate the blood of Stark loyalists staining her front door. 

So when that fails, he corners one of Lyanna’s ladies and threatens her with bodily injury in order to get her to speak. But beyond a muffled “Her Grace is safe”, he could get nothing else out of the girl. Frustrated, Jaime groans. It seems that Lyanna’s ability to inspire loyalty in people has saved her once again. 

On the fourth day, however, just when Jaime is contemplating the merits of carrying a battering ram all the way up to Her Grace’s chambers, he receives a note from Lyanna, telling him to meet her in the godswood at the hour of the wolf. 

At the appointed time, Jaime trudges up the path leading to the Red Keep’s version of a godswood, all the while cursing Ser Barristan for almost making him late. He sees her long before she sees him; and when she hears the sound of footsteps approaching, she whips her head around and runs toward him. 

“Jaime,” she cries out, her hands immediately seeking his own. 

She drops back her hood, and under the bright light cast by the moon, Jaime gasps. There is a large bruise on her face, purple and ugly and larger than the one on Robert’s forehead, and the sight of it almost sends Jaime over the edge. 

“He did this to you?” Jaime shouts incredulously, his own voice betraying him. “That fucking monster!” 

There are a dozen other things Jaime wants to say, all of them ending with the words “Fuck” and “Seven Hells”, but Lyanna beats him to it. She looks at him, unbothered by the ghastly mark on her face, and simply says, “There’s something I need to ask you, Jaime.” 

Jaime nods for her to go on, not trusting himself to speak just yet. 

Her eyes are clear, but somehow, he is reminded of a wolf right before it lunges for the kill – silent and deadly, fangs bared only at the last minute – and when she speaks, there is not a trace of uncertainty in her voice. 

“Would you kill a king for me if I asked you to?” 

Jaime smiles. He already knows what his answer is going to be.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy. Right now I'm supposed to be on a break from fiction writing, but this story just sort of wrote itself and in the end, I couldn't resist. Jaime/Lyanna is my new favorite thing, after all.
> 
> I initially wanted to write Lyanna as this badass, strong character, but for some reason, she ended up being... mercurial? I don't know how the hell that happened. Lol. Oh, and don't even get me started on Cersei/Jaime. I'm not a fan of that pairing, per se, but I forced myself to write those bits because Cersei is such a huge part of Jaime's life, and I felt like it would be a bit unfair if I ignored that.
> 
> Another thing: I'm aware I messed with GRRM's rules of genetics when I made Jon look more Stark than Baratheon, but what the hell. I regret nothing :))


End file.
